Between the Lines -- a short story collection.
by Esmee
Summary: A collection of short Card Captor Sakura fiction.
1. Foreword

Between the lines

|| a collection of stories ||

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            Foreword:

                        This is a collection of short fiction based on the manga "Card Captor Sakura" by CLAMP. These stories are all independent of each other. They are in no way related. Some of them, you will find, are cannon and move within a specific arc of the series, and others you will find are very non-cannon. Among this collection of short fiction you will find romance, humor, introspective, monologue, narrative, drama, shounen-ai, shoujo-ai, hetero, and some other different categories and ratings. 

                        Below you will find a listing of the stories as they are posted, and a short description of what they are about, and a rating beside them. If you see a title that is not posted that means that, well, it's not posted yet. I'm not an incredibly fast writer so it might take a while for some of the stories to be added. But do not lose heart; they will come eventually.

                        I want to thank my sister for razzing me enough to make me get my act in gear and get writing, and my grade 11 English teachers for convincing me that I could write at all. I also want to say that all of the stories within this fiction collection _are_ just that: fiction. These will never happen in CLAMP's original story arc. These characters will never act the way I write them, so it would be pointless to flame me about it.

                        Writing is about free thought. Writing fiction is about free speech. Writing fanfiction is about independent thought, which is a combination of both. I would like it if people reading these stories could just leave all their expectations at the door and just enjoy them as good stories. I would like it even more if people could take something away with them after reading them as well, just as any true author would. As a writer I am trying to make some kind of impression on my readers. I want to write something that will stay with them long after they've read it. I may not always succeed, but that is always what I'm striving for. That is why it is so important to be open-minded when you read. If you don't like what you are reading, you can leave or put the book down. It's just that simple. 

                        But, if you like what you are reading, encourage the writer! It's hard for anybody to do their best at anything if they receive no form of encouragement whatsoever. So it can't ever really be stressed enough just how important it is to review a writer's work. And if you didn't like it, but read it anyway, you should still review, but give valid reasons for why you disliked it. It really is a great help to the author. And this goes for every author out there, not just me.

                        So please, with that said, drop your baggage at the door and come in; I've got some interesting stories to tell.

                        Esmee.

                        ~02. 11. 01.

- - -

|| the stories ||

_Title_: Thin lines.

_Gener_: Introspective, internal monologue. Angst-ish.

_Rating_: PG-13.

_Summary_: Short cannon piece about Eriol's thoughts. No real setting or timeframe.

_Title_: Honor and Duty.

_Gener_: Narrative monologue. Drama/angst.

_Rating_: PG-13

_Summary_: Short non-cannon piece concerning a future where Syaoran has chosen not to have a relationship with Sakura and is now living with the repercussions of his actions. Slight hints of S + Y.

_Title_: These cold dark places.

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_Title_: Sins

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_Title_: The Stars are swallowing the Moon.

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_Title_: Me, myself, and I

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_Title_: Stargazing.

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_Title_: Blue Cotton candy and Penny Goldfish.

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_Title_: Hold Tightly

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_Title_: Liquid music made of storms.

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_Title_: I smell snow

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_Title_: Weakness

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	2. Thin Lines

Thin Lines

By Esmee

- - -

          Traits are passed down through heredity. They are passed from parent to child, and from child to grandchild and from grandchild to great grandchild and so on; traits encoded in the genes that make up the person you are. Therefore, every person on the face of this earth has, if only a little, some of his or her ancestors within themselves all the time. 

          This does not mean that people carry memories from these ancestors, they're not supposed to anyway, just that they might inherit a certain personality trait from someone in their distant past. Or physical features, like eye or hair color.

          They do not inherit the soul.

          At least, that is what we are taught in school. I make it a point to only believe what I know, and I know this; a soul can be inherited. It can be inherited just as a certain eye color can.

          Souls should not be inherited.

          I have always believed that if you work hard enough you can achieve your goal, no matter what it is. The same goes for the soul. A soul should not be inherited; it should not be given like a precious heirloom to a person. It should be earned. Needs to be earned. Otherwise how can one assess his or her own worth? How do we measure our life and achievements against the lifetime of another person? We can't.

          And we shouldn't have to.

          In a person who has inherited a soul, they carry around with them all the memories and emotions that the soul's previous owner had along with their own. The problem is that they never truly have their own. Any emotions or thoughts are always colored by this fact. Always. I know. 

          They are thin lines that divide the two.

          I should know.

          Where do the old souls end and the new ones begin? I have asked myself that so many times, it's almost funny. 

          It's hard at times to differentiate between Clow Reed and Hiragizawa Eriol. Having his memories crowding and influencing what I do and how I think. At times that line becomes so thin that I can barely see it any more. Thin lines between souls blurring and bleeding into each other. Am I he, or is he me? Or are we . . . we? Is it even a question?

          By whatever God there is, I hope so.

          I am ten. But I find myself looking at men and women and wondering. And remembering. Lips on flushed flesh; bodies mingling intertwined; pleasure and pain blending until you can't tell one from the other. I shouldn't know these things. I shouldn't long for these things. I'm only ten.

          I am only ten.

          Aren't I?

          There is a part of myself that is Eriol. That is the ten-year-old boy; who has a crush on girl who reminds him of cherry blossoms; who hates gym and mushrooms. And that ten-year-old boy is often times crushed. 

          I am lucky, I guess. I share the soul with Kinomoto Fujitaka, Sakura's father. This diminishes the dominance of Reed's soul by half. But, at times, even that half is too much. I am a child with the physical memories of an adult. I know of pain, and hardship, of cruelty both thoughtlessly done and purposeful, I know of joy and age and death. I know of lust and love and the difference between the two.

          And I am only _ten_.

          Ever since I was little I have been aware of this soul residing in me, and of the other with it's matching half. And ever since I was little I have struggled to separate my actions from his. But as I grew older, as I still do, I find it getting harder and harder to do so. At first the line was thick and easily distinguished. And now . . . the lines are thinning.

          It scares me.

          I don't _want_ to be Clow Reed. Not really. I want to be able to experience my first kiss without the memory of another face, another mouth overlaying it. I want to have a first love, and a first mistake. I want to be able to _have_ a first.

          But I won't.

          You can't get rid of a soul, no matter want they say. Because even if you sell it, burn it, scar it beyond point of recognition, it will still be there.

          So I must learn to deal with it. Learn to live with having knowledge that is beyond my age and the knowledge that one day there will be no more lines to separate our souls. 

          That terrifies me.

- - -

Disclaimer: Clamp owns CCS, and all characters therein.


	3. Honor and Duty

Honor and Duty

By Esmee

- - -

          I am Li Syaoran.

          I am the tenth descendent of the line of Reed, the mage.

          I am the Heir to the clan Li Empire.

          This is who I am.

          No other things may factor into this equation.

          No other things.

          Ever.

          Love is one of those 'things,' as my grandfather likes to say.

          I repeated this to myself to make doubly sure that I do not momentarily forget just what and who I am. 

          I must be very careful of that some days.

          Today's 'episode' was brought on when I caught myself staring at the dull glitter of an emerald and gold bracelet in some old antique store window. The old agonies reemerging softly and catching me off guard at odd times. I should be used to them by now, but they still manage to surprise me whenever I let myself think. It had been the green of the emerald that had been the trigger this time. The green had briefly reminded me of a green I still held fresh and pure in my memories, though I never brought them to light anymore.

          Green, bright and clear and deep, like water. Gold, faintly blushed with red and gleaming like polished metal.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          I managed to move away from the store window without further incident.

          I remind myself that I am Li.

          Winter in the streets of downtown Hong Kong is not a pretty sight. The streets are endless, gray, and scabby, like some ancient wound the earth had once received and never procured the proper care for afterwards. The people are little better. They pass by each other without letting themselves actually see one another. But I am being hypocritical now; if you were to ask me what the face of the woman coming directly towards me was I would not be able to describe it at all. This is literally what they mean when they say, 'the faceless hoards.' A chill wind wraps up everything nicely. I ignore the homeless people begging for kindness from the gutters and crevasses of the city. 

          I arrive at my destination before long, though I am never sure of the time after 'episodes', a prestigious restaurant in the upper up-scale end of the downtown. The air inside is a warm balm on wind chapped skin and smell faintly of spices, curry, and sake. Muted sounds of enjoyment issue from the dining room lit a warm golden-red by hanging lanterns of crimson and tangerine paper. The host comes and takes my heavy outdoor coat, handing it imperiously to another server lower down in the chain of importance, and ushers me towards my seat with my waiting family.

          Most of the clan is here, and the few who aren't here are away because they were ill. We have been sat in a secluded section of the dining room for more privacy. I can see the servers watching us covertly from the shadows of the room. I can tell they think us an odd party. They are right in a way if I give myself time to stop and think about it; there are very few parties where there are no voices raised in levity or gaiety, especially among the children. But, then again, they will have been told that all of the clan of Li are very self-possessed. I pull my chair in as my wife turns to me expectantly, but does not speak. Her tea-colored eyes were complemented by the black-green dress she wears. I think again of the Green.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          The chatter swing into a lull for a moment, before turning to less domestic topics as I, the Heir, have now arrived. They are talking about some trade that we are making with some large, western company, and I drift away, mentally if not physically. This topic being of absolutely no interest whatsoever to me though I am well aware that I should at the very least be trying to pay attention to it. I am almost at a state of Zen-like peace as I hear my son's voice rise shrilly about the hushed voices of the others. I winced slightly. My son has a truly beautiful soprano, but sometimes it can grate on person, especially when imbued in one as young and, 'precocious' as my wife likes to call it, as he. I suddenly wonder if the Green has a son or daughter yet. Perhaps not. Hopefully not.

          I don't care. I shouldn't care; I am married and I am Heir.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          There are no other factors.

          There is no Green.

          The conversation has now turned to how our shares in Japan are going. Japan. The last news that I had from Japan had been that the Green's brother had passed away. It had been the same cancer that had eaten away at her mother. I can imagine that the last months before his death scared her soul badly. He had always been a very strong man. The word boy had never applied to him. Green and his lover must have hurt very much. I had sent a 'my condolences' note to them at some point.

          I wondered, as I had many times before, whether Green had found comfort in her brother's lover's arms and he in hers. Her brother would not have minded as long as they were happy. He probably would have encouraged a relationship between them.

          I pondered this thought a moment longer before discarding it.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          There had been a time when thoughts like that sent me into a fit of jealous rage so violent it made me ill and depressed for days. I was very young then. I am older now, and though I may not be wiser, I am resigned to it now. The Green is one of those factors that I had such a bare comprehension of as a boy. 

          But . . . 

          I stopped myself quickly, while sneaking a glance at Grandfather. As irrational and silly as it may sound, there are times when it seems that my Grandfather can read minds. And it is always when you are thinking something you shouldn't. 'Buts' are dangerous things. They are the beginnings of longings.

          I am Li Syaoran, Heir, husband, father, and descendent of Reed. I cannot afford longings.

          My Grandfather looked over in my general direction and I squirmed slightly in my seat before straitening my posture. I relaxed only when he looked away, distracted by another conversation.

          I have always dreaded these types of family functions. There is nothing to do at them. And that is dangerous because it gives me a chance to think. To make wild plans to call her, or to run away to Japan or something, only to discard them moments later when I was lucid. 

          I had seriously thought about calling her when I was younger. Or maybe writing her. Whichever I knew would reach her. Not that my family would ever try anything like that. It was not in our nature. But I eventually learned that I was Li and never went through with it. In a small hidden drawer in my desk there is a bundle of envelops made from a heavy, cream colored rice paper that smells faintly of pine, that have never been mailed. I never open that drawer anymore.

          There is no place in the Heir of Li for personal feelings. Never has been. I would be deluding myself if I thought there was. 

          I suppose that I should have called Green. I know I should have called her when her brother died. We were nothing if not friends. But I was too afraid my resolve would crumble if I heard her voice. It was a valid reason. I had newly come to my decision to honor the family and accept my fate. It was a very shaky resolve in the begining. So I did not call her and time passed, as it must in the waking world. Eventually I was too ashamed to call her, too afraid what would happen and so did not. Still, there are times . . . 

          I am Li Syaoran.

          Dreams have no place in tradition.

          Longing has no place in duty.

          Love has no place in honor.

          That is something I was taught very young and have retained ever since.

          I am Li and all that it pertains to.

          "To be, or not to be. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrow of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of trouble and by opposing end them?" Hamlet. Shakespeare wrote that. I know that he did not mean it for me, but it suits so many aspects of my life so well that I could laugh.

          To be: to be Heir and all it pertains. To be the good son. To be the descendent. To be the father and the husband. To be honorable and claim my duty with clear eyes.

          Not to be: not to be the Heir and all its consequences. The good son. The descendent. The father. The husband. Selfish.

          No matter what they say, in the end there is never really a question or choice. There is no Green.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          I am Heir.

          I am descendent.

          I am son, father, and husband.

          These are the lines of space I am required to fill. The lines that define the empty space I fill. I must never forget that. They are the invisible boundaries that are set for me and must never step beyond them.

          As a child on the cusp of manhood I had had wild thoughts of doing just that. But I am Li and learned that it was just not in my nature to ignore duty or honor.

          I was very resentful for a time.

          But I was young and that is my excuse. And my flaw. I stilled dreamed of the Green.

           I am Li Syaoran.

          My wife leaned towards me to tell me something, her lips and warm breath lightly grazing my jaw and cheek as she whispers in my ear. I imagine for just a moment that a girl with green eyes is whispering, lips and sweet breath grazing across his jaw and cheek, to a boy-man with pale hair as he sits very, very still.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          I choose duty over love.

          I choose honor over happiness.

          These are my choices, now I must live with then.

          And if I forced to make a choice again knowing what I know, I would still choose the same way.

          Love and happiness are fleeting; honor and duty last forever.

          Through the half shut lids of my eyes I watch my family and wonder who among them is truly happy, or if true happiness really exists at all. Briefly, on the backs of my eyelids, I see a tangle of smooth limbs enfolding and encircling each other, and slim fingers tangled in a mesh of silk hair, red-gold and silver-white, that tumbles around peaceful faces full of contentment.

          I am Li Syaoran.

          That is who I am.

          There is no changing that.

- - -

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Clamp does.


End file.
